by David Evans
“You’re wasted in uniform,” Barton responded. He took a last draw on his cigarette before stubbing it out. Exhaling hard, he went on, “I’m going to let you take the lead on this.”
Cyril said nothing, surprised at what sounded like praise from the DI who had once admitted, not that long ago, that he was ‘an obnoxious arrogant twat’.
“I think you’ll have more luck getting him to open up,” Barton continued. “I heard what you were saying to him in the warehouse.”
Walter Yardley cut a pathetic figure sitting on a chair, dressed in a borrowed tracksuit. He was hunched over the table as if to make himself as small as possible. He barely looked up as Cyril and Barton entered the interview room.
Barton gave a curt nod to the uniformed PC in attendance, who quietly left, closing the door behind him.
The detectives sat down opposite, Cyril placing a large brown envelope on the floor at his feet.
“Well, Mr Yardley,” Cyril began. “This is a fine mess you’ve got yourself into.”
Yardley merely grunted.
“Mr Yardley … Walter,” Cyril began in soft tones, “We need to talk.”
Slowly Yardley raised his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face was ashen. He looked ten years older. “What do you want to know?” he said.
Cyril flicked open a notebook and began to take notes. “Earlier today, at the warehouse your company owns, you were in attendance when a van belonging to the Holland Flower Company entered the building. What can you tell me about that?”
Yardley shrugged. “Victor and David use that. They import flowers from Holland.”
“But why were you there, Walter?”
“Just checking on things.”
“So you weren’t involved in the Robinsons’ operations?”
“No.”
Cyril bent down and rummaged in the envelope he’d brought with him, pulled out a small clear plastic bag and placed it on the table. “We found you in possession of these,” he said. “We believe these to be diamonds that you brought into this country illegally.”
Another shrug. “Then you know it all.”
“You were about to sell these to Victor and David Robinson, weren’t you?”
Again another shrug but no response.
Barton jumped up out of his seat. “Answer the fucking question!” he yelled.
Yardley jolted backwards, expecting Barton to reach across and grab him.
Cyril thought he might do too and put up a hand. “As DI Barton says, you do need to answer our questions,” he continued calmly, casting a quick glance to the DI.
Barton subsided into his chair.
Yardley leaned back and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, tears forming. “It’s all gone wrong,” he said, rubbing his face. “All I was trying to do was keep the company afloat.” With his head level once again, he looked directly at Cyril. “My father started that company in 1927. Next year and we’d have been celebrating fifty years. Ha.” He gave an ironic laugh. “Except we won’t make it.”
“And you’ve put your house in Frinton up as collateral.” Cyril pitched it as a statement rather than a question.
Yardley nodded.
“Where did these stones come from?”
“Old comrades. People I’ve known, in Holland, since the war.”
“But not legitimate sources. Otherwise there would be no profit in them, would there?”
Yardley nodded.
“So you were fencing them to the Robinsons.”
Again another nod.
“Tell me about Jimmy Morgan?” Cyril asked.
A brief surprised look swept over Yardley’s face at the change of focus. “What about him?”
“He worked for you, didn’t he?”
“Did a bit of casual driving. Local deliveries and such.”
Cyril flicked back a few pages of his notebook. “This morning in the warehouse you said, ‘He deceived me. You don’t do that to people who’ve given you a chance’. What did you mean by that?”
“I’d given him a start … a job. He came to me looking for work. Ex-army from the war, I thought I’d give him a break.”
“But how did he deceive you?”
“He talked. About the diamond plan.”
“How do you know that?”
Yardley looked down at his hands. “I just heard.”
“And then you said …” Cyril made a point of finding the exact quote he’d written. “‘I dealt with it properly.’ How did you deal with it, Walter?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know!” Barton stood up again, so violently, his chair tipped backwards across the floor. “You don’t fucking know! You shot the poor bastard, didn’t you?” He was leaning forward, both hands on the table, face about a foot away from Yardley’s. “I’m not going to piss about like DS Claydon. You need to start telling us the truth. You’re in deep shit here. The only chance you have is telling us what happened. And if … if that fits with the forensic evidence, then we might be able to help you. Do you understand?”
In a quiet voice, Cyril added, “DI Barton’s right, Walter. You see, from where we’re sitting, the gun you hit me on the head with, and I’m a bit mad about that …”
“I’m sorry, Mr Claydon.”
“That gun will be tested at our ballistics lab. And I’m willing to bet that we can match it to the gun that fired the bullet we collected from Jimmy Morgan’s skull.”
This time, the tears flowed from Yardley. “Oh God,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just … he made me mad … I was frightened he would spoil the plan.”
“Just to be clear Mr Yardley,” Cyril said in measured tones, “are you admitting shooting James Morgan?”
The formal use of Yardley’s name wasn’t lost on Barton.
“Yes,” Yardley said, “But I didn’t mean to do it. I just got angry.”
“And for the record, Mr Yardley, where exactly did you murder James Morgan?”
“In the warehouse. Second floor. There are some rooms. I asked him to help me with something.”
“You lured him?”
Yardley nodded. “I suppose.”
Barton stood up once again but in a deliberate fashion this time. “Walter Yardley, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of James Morgan.” He then proceeded to issue the standard caution.
With the PC back in the room, Barton leaned against the wall of the corridor outside. “You did well in there, Cyril,” he said.
“Good cop, bad cop,” Cyril smiled. “I did think you were going to smack him at one point. And that wouldn’t have helped.”
Barton laughed. “It was tempting, I must admit, but you were getting through to him. I just thought I needed to focus his mind.”
They began to walk down the corridor. “Come on,” Barton said, “I think we need some refreshment.”
67
Cyril and Barton sat in the canteen, both with mugs of tea, Barton with a plate of chips and Cyril with a ham sandwich. They were just finishing eating when Sanderson came in and walked over to them.
“Tea, Sir?” Barton offered.
“Thanks John, I need one.” Sanderson sat in a vacant chair.
As Barton went off for the DCI’s drink, Cyril drained his mug and leaned across. “How’d it go with the Robinson boys?”
Sanderson shook his head. “As you’d expect, denied any involvement in anything. They’re running a legit business importing flowers and know nothing about any plans to buy diamonds from Yardley. Reckon he’s a fantasist.”
“And, of course, totally surprised we would even consider they were smuggling porn.” Cyril took out his pipe and tobacco and began to fill it.
Barton returned with a drink for his DCI. Before he could ask for an update, the desk sergeant popped his head into the canteen and sought out Sanderson.
“Phone call for you, Sir,” the sergeant announced.
A few minutes later, after Cyril had told Barton what Sanderson had sai
d, the DCI returned and joined them at the table and took a swig of his tea.
With a serious look on his face, he addressed Cyril. “You told me when you were on the ferry coming back from Holland, you overheard DS Gray on the phone to someone.”
“That’s right,” he said, puffing on his pipe and waving the smoke clear. “Is it important?”
“It might be,” Sanderson said. “I’d like you to complete a statement form, and try to remember what you heard in as much detail as possible.”
“Trouble?” Barton joined in.
“This DCI Holt from the Met is coming down to see us in the morning.”
“Oh great,” Barton sighed. “Will he be making sure his precious Robinson brothers walk away?”
“Actually John, you probably couldn’t be more wrong. I told you of his suspicions during that first conversation we had when you were on the ferry.”
“You did,” Barton agreed.
“And thinking about things, I’d also like you to give as full an account as possible of your time on the ferry going over to Holland.”
Barton looked from the DCI to Cyril and back again.
Cyril merely raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.
* * *
“You know where this is going, don’t you, Cyril?” Barton had paused in his writing to light up another cigarette.
Cyril had come into his office with his completed statement in his hand. The fact that Barton was now consulting him wasn’t lost. No doubt about it, Barton’s attitude towards him had mellowed. “I’m not exactly sure,” he replied, “but I think there’s a smell beginning to pervade all this.”
“You mean the shit’s about to hit the fan.”
“Something like that.” Cyril sat down opposite the DI. “Why do you think he wanted a statement from me about my overheard conversation on board?”
“Why do you think? I’ve concentrated on certain aspects of the journey myself.”
“Times spent with DS Gray?”
Barton nodded. “He thinks he’s bent.”
DCI Sanderson gave a polite knock and swept into Barton’s office. “All done?” he asked.
Cyril held up his statement.
“Just reading through mine Sir, then I’ll sign it,” Barton replied.
“Good.” Sanderson remained standing. “Yardley has asked to see his wife, Edith. At the moment, I’m not prepared to do that. I’m just waiting on a warrant for his house in Frinton. I’d like to conduct a search there before we allow any contact.”
“What about the Electrical Factory?” Cyril wondered.
“First thing in the morning.” Sanderson studied them for a moment. “Look you two, get yourself off home and get some rest. You’ve put enough in today. Get in for seven and we’ll sort out the searches when we get those warrants. Our guests can enjoy some hospitality in our luxury accommodation tonight and we can resume in the morning. By that time, we might have some initial findings from the forensics.”
68
“Good God, Cyril, what have you done now.” Doris fussed around when she opened her front door to him. “It looks worse than ever.” She stared at his head.
“It looks worse than it is, Doris, that’s what it does. Anyway, I’ll be fine with a good night’s sleep.”
Charlie came lumbering up, wondering what all the fuss was about, only interested in getting some attention from his master.
Cyril rubbed the dog’s head. He’d come to collect him and take him home; Doris had looked after him yet again.
“Come in. I’ll cook you something,” Doris persisted. “You need a good meal after all you’ve been through.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got something in,” he lied.
“You had some greasy fish and chips last night, that’s no good,” Doris nagged. “Charlie told me.” She chuckled as she saw Cyril’s puzzled expression. “Okay, so Big Pete told me you were in. I saw him this morning.”
“I will get something healthy tonight, I promise. And after a good night’s rest. I’ll be fine.”
“You will, but you’re coming in. I’ll sort something for you.” She held the door wide.
“It’s okay, Doris. I’ll …”
“No buts Cyril Claydon. I’m cooking you something decent to eat. You look too tired to do it yourself. And I don’t trust that you will. What would Maureen say?”
Cyril held up both hands. “All right. I give in.”
As she fussed around in the kitchen, Cyril sat in a comfortable armchair in Doris’s front room, looking at, but not really watching the television.
Charlie was in the kitchen with her, munching his way through a bowl of dog biscuits.
Shortly afterwards, tantalising aromas were emerging from the kitchen.
“I hope you’re not going to a load of trouble out there,” he said.
“I can always knock up a meal. We didn’t survive the war without being able to do that,” she shouted back.
A smile grew on Cyril’s face. After a long day with too much going on, it was pleasant to sit and relax and have someone else make a fuss. He just wanted to clear his mind of all the awful sights he’d witnessed over the past couple of weeks. The plane crash; both corpses, the workbench in the warehouse, then the rooms on the top floor.
He closed his eyes and put his hand to his head, gently touching the wound site.
“Leave that alone,” she said.
He opened his eyes to see her standing in the doorway.
“Come and get this while it’s hot.”
As he stood up out of the chair and followed her to the kitchen, his legs felt stiff. The day’s events had certainly taken their toll.
True to her word, Doris had cobbled together a tasty dish with vegetables and a tin of corned beef. Through the course of the meal, she never asked about the events of Cyril’s day, concentrating conversation about her and Charlie, the weather finally breaking and some comments about the mess the politicians were making.
“You go and put your feet up now, Doris,” Cyril said, collecting the plates to the sink. “I’ll wash up.”
“No you won’t,” she insisted with a fake temper. “You’re my guest. Sit down next door and watch some telly.”
“At least let me …”
“Go! Get out of my kitchen.” Doris had a smile on her face.
Admitting defeat, not least because of the fatigue he was feeling, he returned to the living room and switched the TV back on. Another episode of the new series, The Sweeney was starting. That reminded him of his meeting earlier with Jack Finnegan, the Butlin’s chef who’d seen a big Daimler at the lane end to the airstrip on the morning of the crash. He tried to recall the scant descriptions he gave. He didn’t think they matched the Robinson brothers, but could the two figures he saw sitting inside have been Marshall and Thompson?
The raised voices of John Thaw and Denis Waterman flooded over him and interrupted his thought patterns. God, he was tired. The last thing he could remember was Jack Regan announcing, ‘You’re nicked.’
The Lancaster makes its catastrophic landing. The initial fireball rises into the early morning sky then clears. Cyril looks at Brian in the cockpit. The cover slides back and his friend, with arms on either side, pushes himself up from the confined space. But below his chest there is nothing. Brian looks straight at him, waves a hand in acknowledgement then fades from view.
Cyril tries to move his legs but his feet seem to be stuck fast. He looks down and sees water up to his knees. He looks round then sees a familiar floral dress and a pair of shapely legs.
He hears a voice, Maureen’s voice, but he can’t see her. “It’s okay, Cyril. Time to move on. Go on, love. Go on.”
* * *
Barton closed the flat door behind him and leaned against it for a second. He was tired. It had been a long day; a frustrating day. But not just physically. He was tired of this place. Tired of waking up with women he could hardly remember, like that old tart on Saturday morning.
He s
niffed the air, then walked through to the kitchen. The smell was stronger in there. The bin. Shit, he meant to take it out on Monday but he’d forgotten. Missed the rubbish collection on Tuesday too. He bent down and opened the cupboard below the sink and pulled the bin out. He nearly gagged. Left over take-away from Friday night. Tying the bin liner up, he held his breath then took it outside and downstairs to the metal dustbin.
He was sorely tempted to go for a beer, but he knew what would happen. He’d have a few then migrate to a club and pull some bird and either go back to hers or bring her back here for another round of unsatisfactory sex. For a split second, he almost gave in. No, he decided, now he’d made a token start, why not see how long he could keep going and tidy the place up.
As he walked back up to his flat, he thought of Cyril. Funny old bugger. But straight as a die and with standards; surely no bad thing. And he’d taken one for him this afternoon in that warehouse. He smiled to himself as he thought of him sticking the end of his pipe in Yardley’s ribs, pretending it was a gun; like some schoolboy game of cowboys and Indians.
Running hot water into the kitchen sink and piling in dirty dishes, he couldn’t stop smiling to himself.
Cyril had done a competent job interviewing Yardley too. He’d have ended up grabbing hold of him but Cyril had achieved the required result with a gentle approach. He might try that himself at some point. Then again, maybe not.
He was surprised when an hour later he surveyed his accommodation and found it to be the tidiest he could remember in ages. Finally collapsing on the bed fully clothed, he drifted off within seconds.
* * *
Cyril turned over and tried to move his arm. He could feel nothing. Panic woke him from his sleep. He was confused. An orange glow from a streetlamp filtered in through unfamiliar curtains. Then he realised he was sitting in an armchair, a blanket over him. Of course, this was Doris’s living room. A weird snorting and whistling noise came from somewhere near his feet. He looked down and made out Charlie’s bulk, paws pounding over some dream-filled field, chasing rabbits no doubt.
